“Are you unwell?”
“No.” She swallowed, trying hard to focus on the mother duck swimming along and the five tiny golden ducklings trailing behind.
He spoke more, but she could not hear his words past the memory of her father’s dying request. She blinked, tearing herself to the present. “Excuse me?”
“I asked, were you close?”
“Close?” She recalled his every last breath.
“To your father?” he asked patiently.
She blew out a long lungful of air, trying to remember the days before her father was murdered and she became an orphan in more ways than one. “He worked quite a lot. Traveled. He was really quite…busy. There were times when he was gone for weeks at a stretch. But he was my father. My only parent. Well, besides Sully.”
“Sully?”
Something eased in her chest, just thinking about the jovial, ruddy-faced man who had tried to be both mother and father to her. Her lips lifted, despite herself. “My father’s man-of-affairs.”
“And you were close to him?”
“Quite. He practically raised me.”
“Why was he so involved with your rearing?”
“My mother, well, she was not built for being the wife of a diplomat.”
“How so?”
“She hated change. Although it was never said, I knew that she abhorred living outside England. She had a fit every time we were reassigned. She could not abide by ‘foreign’ customs, people, even residences. She was English and wanted everyone else in the world to be.”
“Families have been known to stay back in England when a husband serves.”
“Not my family. My father could not bear to be separated from us.”
“Still, to be dragged from place to place. It is an unsettling life….”
“I did not mind. I met some wonderful people, was able to visit exotic places.”
“And where is this Sully fellow now?”
A cloud drifted overhead, blocking out the sunlight. She turned and scanned the crowd, noting that Miss Myrtle and the burly footman had stopped nearby. Easily within earshot. “Do you think a storm is coming?”
“Seems fine to me.” He toyed with the head of his ebony cane. “So when will I get to meet Sully?”
“I disagree. It looks like rain to me. We had best be returning. We would not want to give your mother twitching of the guts.”
“Too late,” he remarked offhandedly as he nodded greetings to two ladies strolling nearby.
She smiled. “Now it is you who are being wicked.”
As soon as they passed, the two ladies leaned together, whispering excitedly like hens plotting a conspiracy. Oh, to be so taken with the trivial.
He spoke tentatively. “I appreciate your desire for solitude. But I would ask that you grant me the favor of your company this evening, Miss Amherst. You see, I am in need of your assistance.”
“How can I help you?” she asked dubiously.
“You can shield me from the procession of marriageable young chits my mother will be parading before me. No matter what she said before, she is on campaign and I am in the trenches.”
“Well, I can sympathize with your situation, not wanting to marry myself. But I really cannot see how I can be of service to you.”
“Your public mourning combined with my duty as your escort will keep away most unwanted attention.”
She raised her brow. “And attract attention of an altogether different sort.”
“So what if the world thinks that I am interested in you? You and I know the truth of the matter.” He opened his hand. “It will keep the matrimony-minded mamas at bay. And my mother—”
“—ready to drum my bonnet.”
“Please?”
She stared into those pleading greenish-gray eyes. Well, the man had been quite considerate of her situation these last few days, and his mother was a dagger-toothed harpy….
“Very well.” It would not be too terrible to divert herself a bit with the inevitable distractions Polite Society offered.
“Thank you.”
They strolled along in companionable silence.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You know, this is the first time I have ever flagrantly disobeyed my mother. I do believe that you are a negative influence on me, Miss Amherst.”
“Sometimes a little transgression is good for the soul. Strengthens the blood.”
“Or takes one to the devil.”
“You mean we’re not already there?”
They shared a little smile.
Thunder rumbled off in the distance.
“You were correct about the weather.” He looked up. Clouds were forming into gray clusters on the horizon.
She sniffed the air. “I have always had a fine sense of approaching storms.” Regrettably, she had not always shown a particular talent for coming in from them.
E
velyn stood at the top of the white marble staircase and beheld the glittering masses attending the Coventry Ball that evening. She soaked in the dazzling diamonds, intricate hairstyles, and colorful costumes of the
ton
and could almost hear the clank as her social armor slipped into place. Since turning fifteen she had attended various court functions around the world with her father. The languages, costumes, and mores were different, but the social particulars were always the same. She had learned at a young age that steely reserve cloaked behind a pleasant demeanor was the key to mastering any social context.
“Being the daughter of a knighted diplomat, you must have attended some marvelous balls,” Lady Fontaine commented airily as she waved her lacy fan and scanned the dance floor.
The orchestra was playing a quadrille, and the dancers squared off and partnered in methodical rhythm. Evelyn was thankful no one would ask her to dance. Appreciating the added protection her public mourning allowed her, she adjusted her black bombazine gown and snapped open her black crepe fan. The heat from the masses assembled below was already climbing to the top of the stairs like smoke from burning embers.
Miss Madeline Fontaine stood on the tips of her toes, like a twittering bird perched on high, scanning the current above a stream, looking for tasty morsels to dissect. “Miss Erringston is quite the fashion with that deep flounce. And I love her hair. I will have to see if Esmie can do that style. And look at Mr. Darbon’s vest. Why, it must be twenty different shades of red. How appalling.” The young lady giggled.
“Shall we?” Barclay tilted his head toward the crowd.
Evelyn accepted his proffered arm, and they walked down the white marble stairs close behind Lord and Lady Fontaine.
“Quite the crush,” the bright-eyed seventeen-year-old stated happily from Barclay’s other side. “Lady Wellingsford will be pleased. Oh, there is Miss Abernathy.” She pointed her fan across the crowded floor.
Evelyn braced herself as they dove into the sea of people. She glided along in the tide of muslin and lace, holding on lightly to Barclay’s arm. She was jabbed countless times by the pins of the ladies pushing past and bumped and elbowed on every side by the hordes of loud, colorfully dressed Fancy. The air was rank with heavy perfumes; roses mixed with musk, carnations, violets, and lavender. Her stomach churned with the sickening combinations. The laughter and commentary converged into a wave of discordant clamor blaring out the melody of the ensemble. For someone used to isolation for the past few months, it was like being thrown into a bucket of freshly caught fish waiting to be gutted.
Barclay leaned close. “This must be a bit much for you. I understand the back room is usually more quiet.”
She nodded, and he said something to his cousins, then disengaged from Miss Madeline and led Evelyn down a long, congested corridor toward the rear of the ballroom. The crush kept forcing her against his hard, warm body, and she tried to ignore the tension she felt at his every touch.
She was a healthy lady of two and twenty and he was an exceedingly attractive gentleman, cousin or not. Still, she did not want him getting any ideas about her. Her life was complicated enough without tossing a dashing marquis into the mix.
Evelyn let out a small sigh as they escaped the packed ballroom and entered the spacious, gold-gilded parlor. People sat or stood clustered in twos and threes, drinking and conversing quietly. A servant came by with champagne, and Barclay lifted two flutes off the tray and handed her one.
She sipped it slowly, relishing the tangy flavor and the tickle of fine bubbles on her nose.
“Señorita Evelyn? Is it you?” came a deep baritone over her shoulder.
She turned. A tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned gentleman in black formal attire sauntered up to her.
Her lips split into a wide, warm smile. “Angel!”
He grabbed her white-gloved hand and raised it to his lips. “Señorita Evelyn,” he said in Spanish, “you are even more beautiful than when I last saw you.”
“It’s been ages, Angel!” she replied in his native tongue. Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him on both cheeks in greeting.
His white teeth gleamed wickedly. “The last I saw you, you were chasing away that formidable Señora Morporenda from your father.”
“After I was finished with her, she didn’t want to be in the same country with us.”
“She was a bit of a witch.”
“And what of you? How is your father? And Mercedes? And what ever happened with Señorita Isabella?”
He pressed his white-gloved hand dramatically to his chest. “Ah, my friend, she broke my heart.”
She grinned. “And you have likely broken thousands since.”
“Maybe a few, here and there, but I do not tell tales.”
Barclay coughed into his hand.
“Oh, forgive me, Lord Barclay.” She reverted back to English, suddenly aware of how excluded he must have felt. “May I introduce my dear friend Señor Angel Arolas.”
Angel bowed with a graceful flourish. “At your service, my lord.”
“How is it you two know each other?”
“Señorita Evelyn and I have known each other since we were…” He held his hand hip height. “Was it this high?”
“You were never that high, Angel,” she teased. She turned to Barclay. “Angel’s father is a Spanish diplomat. We have seen each other off and on for years.”
“Señorita Evelyn made life bearable at the Cortes of Ca’diz. When all of the liberals were drafting the new constitution of 1812 she was trying to keep me from losing my heart.”
“Is your father stationed in Town?” Barclay asked, casually sipping his champagne.
“He is everywhere these days.” Angel shrugged.
“Justin?” a shrill, nasally voice called out from the doorway.
Lady Barclay stood at the door with a vapid young girl dressed head to toe in violet. Even the feathers on her turban were shockingly purple.
“On your honor, attend me, Justin. Miss Fecklesby requires a partner.” Her craggy face was pinched into a disapproving scowl.
The young girl blushed beet red and tucked her chin to her chest, appalled.
Evelyn leaned toward Barclay and whispered, “Go save her, my lord. It will give me a chance to catch up with Angel without boring you to tears.”
He seemed on the brink of refusing, but a trio of matrons entered the room, staring at the scene, interested. He bowed stiffly. “Duty calls, but I will return immediately.”
He walked toward his mother, his back ramrod straight. The dragon lady’s eyes gleamed with wicked satisfaction, the young girl’s with relief.
“Let us walk outside, where we can speak more privately.” Angel extended his arm.
The evening air was crisp and smelled of roses and pine. The dark, cloudless sky shimmered with stars, and the pale orb of the moon stared down at them as they strolled along the garden path. Pebbles crunched under their shoes and massaged the soles of Evelyn’s feet against her thin slippers. She let out a sigh. She had known Angel for years. She could be open with him. To some extent.
“I heard about your father, Evelyn,” he began in Spanish. “He was a good man. I am so sorry.”
She nodded, slowly. “Thank you.”
“I must confess, I am surprised to find you back in England.”
“Why?”
He pressed his lush lips together. “My father told me what happened.”
She shuddered. “It was…horrible. Every time I think about it…I become ill.”
He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder and wrapped his arms about her. He smelled of spicy, sharp cologne. She pressed her nose into the soft silk of his jacket, relishing the comfort for a moment, then slowly pushed herself away. “I try not to dwell on it. It is overwhelming, and I need to carry on, to continue.”
He nodded. “I have always feared facing it, like you did. My papa…well, it is all part of the business, but still…”
Angel’s father also worked in intelligence. It was something understood but never discussed.
“But you have no anger toward the English for what they’ve done?” he asked, gruffly.
She furrowed her brow.
He let out a long breath of air. “Papa told me that he was killed by his own.”
“B…but that is impossible,” she slipped into English.
“The British think he betrayed his country. My father does not believe it. I do not either. But who knows the truth?”
She blinked. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Sí.”
“How could anyone think such a thing? The man would rather have cut off his own arm than turn traitor.”
“I do not pretend to understand the English. Sometimes I think they are…” He pointed to his forehead. “What is the English word for
chiflado
? But they are our friends and we need their help to free our country.”
A cloud of confusion swept over her. How could anyone could ever believe her father disloyal? She dropped down on a cold stone bench. “It boggles the mind.”
He sat down beside her. “So what do you do now?”
She shook her head, trying to clear it. “How in heaven’s name could anyone ever believe for a moment that my father was untrue?” The man had given his life, in many ways had given up his family, in service of his country.
He grasped her hand in his. “Perhaps my father was wrong…”
She glared at him.
He shrugged. “It happens.”
She shook her head again. Everything seemed distorted suddenly. Unearthly, unreal. Father had sent her to London with his last breath.
But he had told her to collect her legacy and leave, posthaste.
“Do you have family? Protection? Does this Barclay care for you?”
“What? Ah. No.” She bit her lip, lost in thought. “I have family here, but distant. I take care of myself. You know that, Angel.”
“You are a young lady whose father has been murdered before her eyes. Do not be foolish. You need protection, Evelyn.”
She straightened her shoulders and looked directly into those chocolate brown eyes. She just needed some time in London. Not long. If she could follow her father’s instructions, then she would be all right. She had to be. “I can take care of myself, Angel.”
“You English are
irracional
.” He stood and began pacing up and down the shallow path bordering the bench, the pebbles crunching angrily under his shiny buckled shoes. “Your father was murdered by your own government and you think you are safe here?” He huffed and continued pacing. “You know as well as I, better than me, that this is not a game. Let me help you.” He stopped short, crouching down before her. “Father is working with Wellington. He has resources. Let us help you.”
Tears of gratitude welled up in her eyes, threatening to break free and overwhelm her. She could not handle his generosity; it burst through the protective shell of her numbness, making her feel as if she might shatter into a thousand pieces. She blinked back the tears and clamped down on the emotions crushing her chest.
“You are so sweet, Angel. I appreciate the offer. I…I have some things I must take care of. If all goes as planned, well, then all will be fine. But if I do need you…”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you up to, Evelyn? Do not get yourself mixed up in this business. It is too dangerous, and you have paid too dear a price already.”
She raised her brow disbelievingly. “And you are not already neck deep in the nasty games?”
He growled, “My father always said you would have made a hell of a man.”
“From him that is a high compliment indeed. Still, I can take care of myself just as well being a woman.” She would have to.
“My offer stands. You will consider it?”
What if her plan did not succeed? What if she really was alone in the world without assistance or income? She hated the thought of having to rely on the handouts of others, but what choices would she have then? At least she knew that Angel was sincere. That he and his father had the wherewithal to help her. She blew out a long breath of air.
“I will think on it,” came her cautious reply.
“Offering for her hand after only one chance meeting?” Barclay stepped closer from down the garden lane. “She is still in mourning, for heaven’s sake,” he declared in a mocking tone.
Evelyn’s cheeks warmed. Well, she could not take it out on Barclay. He was innocent of their deadly world.
She and Angel both stood.
“I understood that Señorita Evelyn has sworn off marriage,” Angel replied lightly.
Evelyn pasted a small smile on her tight lips and feigned a teasing jib. “And once I’ve set my mind, have you ever known me to alter it, Angel?”
“No,” he replied smoothly, once again the diplomat’s charming son. “But I can still try to change it.”
“Is your heart broken once again, Señor Arolas?” Barclay asked, watching Angel carefully.
“I think my heart is safe with Señorita Evelyn.” He bowed, his eyes only for Evelyn. “I will call upon you. Where do you stay?”
“Belfont House with Lord and Lady Fontaine, my cousins.”
He kissed her on both cheeks. “Until then. My lord.” He nodded to Barclay and swept down the lane, his long black coattails flying behind him.
Barclay frowned. “He seemed in quite a hurry to be off. I trust I did not offend him.”
She bit her lip, lost in thought.
“Miss Amherst? Are you alright?”
“Uh, yes, I’m fine.”
“You know that if you require anything, I will gladly be of service to you.”
Her eyes fixed on him warily. “What would make you think that I am in need of assistance?”
“This is a difficult time for you. Returning to England. Your father’s recent passing…” He lifted her chin with his finger, catching her gaze with his gray-green eyes. “I mean it, Miss Amherst. If you are in any difficultly, you can tell me what it is about, and I will do everything in my power to assist you.”
Although her lips felt like wood, she forced a smile up at him. If he had any idea of the madcap world her father traversed.
Had
traversed.
It was dangerous for all, particularly the unwary.
He would be a guppy in a pond full of sharks. Well, not a guppy, but certainly no sharp-toothed predator. She shook her head and smiled reassuringly. “I am fine, my lord. Just catching up on old times with Angel. It made me think about…about before my father’s passing. That’s all.”